


To Build a Home

by juliafied



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Character Study, Childbirth, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29186133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliafied/pseuds/juliafied
Summary: Varania has fled the Tevinter Imperium once and for all, and when she calls for help from a Fenris on the cusp of fatherhood, he cannot help but answer. A rumination on family, parenthood, and the people we choose to love.
Relationships: Fenris & Varania (Dragon Age), Fenris/Female Hawke
Comments: 32
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic sprang into my head unannounced a few weeks ago and I couldn't rest until I got it out on a page. It's based off this DADWC [prompt fill](https://juliafied.tumblr.com/post/639799850913890305/fenhawke-i-wont-let-you-for-dadwc) that I wrote on Tumblr. It is fully written, and I will be posting as I finish editing the rest of the chapters.
> 
> Huge thank you to [luzial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luzial/pseuds/luzial/works) for beta-reading this work. Her suggestions and edits have been invaluable to me, and her own writing is also fantastic, so go check her out if you don't know her yet! 
> 
> CW for this story: pregnancy, childbirth, references to slavery

“Absolutely not,” says Hawke as she stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, swollen belly jutting forward. “I won’t let you.”

Fenris has already started harriedly packing some of his things into a rucksack, the note he just read abandoned on the desk in their bedroom, where he usually goes through their mail. “I have to, Hawke. She wouldn’t write if there were anyone else she could turn to.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” she says, jaw set. A sweep of Fenris’ eyes towards her stomach elicits a protest. “I _can_ ride, it’d just be… difficult.”

“I would not endanger you, Hawke.”

Her gaze is dubious, but she accepts this with an angry huff. “Leave? Now? When I’m due Maker knows how soon?”

He pauses his milling about to reach for her wrist, pressing a cool kiss to the palm that he had massaged just this morning. “Only for a few days. And only to Hasmal.” With a sort of reverence, he looks at her stomach, where their child (almost eight months in, he can scarcely believe it) grows still. “The healer said six weeks,” he reminds her gently.

She scowls. “The healer’s full of shit.”

Fenris chuckles and presses his lips to her forehead, which she leans into begrudgingly.

“He wasn’t full of shit when he gave you those herbs for my fever…” Hawke rolls her eyes, and he continues. “She’s my sister, Hawke. And she has a chance, now, a real chance, to be truly free. If there’s anything I can do to help…” His eyes harden, thinking of the bitter words Varania uttered the last time they saw each other in person. “I think I owe her that much.”

“You don’t owe her anything,” says Hawke fiercely, but after a moment’s consideration, she relents with a belaboured sigh. “I understand. If it was Bethany, I would do anything.”

He squeezes her hand gratefully, and his own comes to rest on Hawke’s belly. “Everything is going to be fine.”

She nods and moves to sit on the bed, rubbing her stomach absentmindedly as he’s noticed pregnant people often do. He’s noticed many changes over these past months, things that she’s needed from him that she’s never needed before: retrieving objects on the ground that she can no longer reach; handkerchiefs on hand to wipe the unbidden tears that come when she sees a mabari pup at the market; small assurances (which leave her embarrassed in a way he didn’t think still possible after nine years together) that he still finds her changing body beautiful as he stokes heat between her thighs.

The tension in the air at his departure is caused as much by his unwillingness to leave her as her loathing to let him go. He wants nothing more than to experience this, _all_ of this, with her. But, alas—

“Don’t forget to bring enough socks. You hate having wet feet, and Hasmal is muddy this time of year.”

After Fenris has packed (with Hawke continuing to make pointed comments on his lack of forethought on the necessity of various items), and he has sent for a fast horse, their parting is short. Her lips are sweet; her hands leave in disarray the braid he has taken to weaving his long hair into. There has only been one such parting before, after which she vowed she would never leave him again. They’d repeated this vow once again to one another, months later, in front of their friends and the family she had left. He smiles as he remembers how beautiful she was in the red dress, borrowed from Isabela, with white flowers in her hair. He thinks about how beautiful she _still_ is, four years later.

Hawke is evidently thinking about that, too, because upon their last embrace, she whispers, “‘Til death do us part,’ do you remember?”

“I’ve no intention of dying,” he reminds her, and she squeezes him tight, as if to make it last long after she has let go.

“Be careful. I love you.”

“I am yours,” he murmurs into her ear. As he puts one foot into the stirrup and swings the other to mount the mare, she gives a half-hearted wave. With a kick of his heel, he leaves her, and their little house, behind.

The docks of Hasmal, on the Minanter river, smell exactly like he expects them to, given the close proximity to the Imperium: of fish and piss and desperation. He is looking for an inn by the river, but he hopes he is not too late – Varania’s note mentioned that she has gold enough only for a few nights, and he does not know how long her word took to reach him. His coin purse bounces heavily on his belt, accordingly – he only hopes that it does not attract the most desperate of this miserable corner of the city. The wind is picking up with the late hour, and his horse is tired. It would do to find the place quickly.

He does so with directions from a young shoe shiner, whose blackened hands nimbly catch the piece of copper Fenris tosses him. He ties up the horse in the inn’s stable, handing a few coppers to the stable boy as well. The mare drinks gratefully – he has named her Brandy in his head, after the colour of her coat. He pats her on the haunch affectionately. She has carried him fast and true.

His cloak covers his ears as he walks into the hall of the inn, and the innkeeper barely spares him a second glance as he pours multiple flagons of ale for the inn’s rowdy patrons. Fenris surveys the tables, looking for pointed ears and a flash of red hair.

Varania turns her head, and time seems to stop.

He is brought back to when he last saw her. She, on her knees in front of him, the loud thud of blood in his temples, acrid hate, like bile, in his throat, ready to…

A soft word, from Hawke. Calling him back from the edge, like always.

“Varania!” he cries, more alarm in his tone than he expected. She starts to stand from her seat, and he weaves through the crowd, stopping only when he is at the head of her table. A small rucksack and a suitcase are wedged firmly underneath it. Her gaze is impassable, eyes dark, brow heavy. They stare at one another for a few breaths, until finally, she speaks.

“Le— Fenris. Your… hair is longer,” she seems to settle on.

Fenris glances at the pale braid on his shoulder. “I—yes. Hawke likes it,” he adds lamely.

Varania, too, has changed from the image in his mind’s eye that he remembers. She has cut her ginger hair short, and there are lines around her eyes that weren’t there before. She looks drawn, tired. The journey she described in her letter was a long one: abandoning her tailor’s shop in Ventus in light of the imminent Qunari invasion, her flight taking her down through Marothius to Perivantium, then finally through the Silent Plains in the back of a smuggler’s wagon and dumped at the edge of the Hasmal border. A pleasure for which, she mentioned, she had paid most of her savings.

Somehow, Fenris doubts it was much of a pleasure.

He realizes he is still standing, and that Varania is still staring. He gestures to the bar, weakly, and asks, “Are you hungry? I have coin. We could eat.”

As if on cue, his stomach growls. He has not eaten since the morning. “I _have_ coin,” Varania hisses, with a puzzling amount of ire. She knows he has read her letter, and that Fenris is aware of her precarious financial situation. It occurs to him, suddenly, that she might be embarrassed.

He sighs. There are no empty cups or plates at her table. “Save it for your lodgings,” he says, sitting down, and waves down a serving girl.

Ten minutes of silence later, the serving girl returns with two mugs of steaming mulled wine, and two plates heaped with mashed potatoes, venison, and roasted vegetables. “Eat,” he says to Varania when one of the plates is placed in front of her. After a moment’s hesitation, she tears into the meal.

Fenris remembers being that hungry. The first night in Kirkwall, when the hunters Danarius had hired lay dead in the streets of the alienage, Varric had bought him dinner. It had been at the Hanged Man and thus terrible, but it had been the first meal he had sat down to eat in months. Fenris wonders if the relief he felt then is what Varania feels now. If it is, she gives no indication.

When they have supped, and finished the last of the bottle of wine the serving girl has brought them at Fenris’ request, he turns to Varania and asks, “Have you a room for the night?”

Her cheeks colour, and she shakes her head, a sharp, bitter movement. He nods and rises, setting his jaw to approach the innkeeper at the bar, who stands polishing some silverware.

“Do you have vacancies? My sister and I require a room,” he says, hand flitting to gesture towards her.

The man’s eyes narrow in contempt. “She ran out of gold this morning. I’d have tossed her out long ago if the bar were busier.”

Fenris ignores this, only reaching for his noticeably heavy coin purse and asking, “How much for a room? Two beds.”

Luckily, the innkeeper’s eyes widen at the sight of the purse, and quickly answers, “Forty silver.”

Fenris scoffs and looks around the hall. “Does this look like Val Royeaux to you? Thirty, and that’s _with_ our dinner.”

The man lets out a discontented sigh but acquiesces. “Fine.” He ducks under the bar and returns topside with a key. “Up the stairs and to the left, room number 12.”

“Thank you,” Fenris mutters, though he’d like to say quite the opposite, as he grabs the key and drops the money into the man’s hand. Upon his return to the table, he retrieves Varania’s suitcase from underneath, and hoists the rucksack on his shoulder.

“Come on,” he says, and to her credit, she follows.

The room is modest: two beds, as Fenris requested, with a desk in the middle. He places Varania’s rucksack on it and the suitcase underneath. Then, he removes his cloak and hangs it on the nail on the door.

“Which one do you want?” he asks.

She gestures to the one by the window. “I’ve never had a room with a window before,” she explains, and sits stiffly on the bed. Fenris does the same, and they avoid each others’ gazes for a time.

“Do you want to unpack?” he asks, at the same time as she pronounces, “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Why wouldn’t I come?” he demands, before realizing this is a stupid question. Varania had not been present for the discussions Hawke had gently pressed on him, about the desperation of poverty and the things people could be driven to do to escape a bad situation. She had not seen the regret on his face when he realized that his killing of the Fog Warriors was not so far removed from her betrayal of a brother that did not recognize her and left her to fend for herself. She had not been there when he cursed the silk slippered feet of a system that stepped on both their backs and called itself the proudest nation in Thedas.

So, when her mouth falls open in indignant disbelief, he quickly backtracks. “No, forgive me. I… am not as impulsive as when you last saw me. You must understand, Varania… I had just killed the man whose continued existence haunted my every thought for the last six years. I took it out on you, and… I am sorry.”

She does not say that she forgives him, not yet, but it is her right. “That still does not explain why you would come.”

“Perhaps family might mean something to me, yet,” he says simply.

At this, she hums, and says nothing more. Before long, she has fallen to her side, curled into herself like a ball of yarn. _Or a child_ , thinks Fenris with a hollow thump of his heart. Hawke must be asleep by now, too, eyes flitting wildly underneath her eyelids, the baby waking her occasionally with its kicking. Kicks that Fenris would be able to feel, if he was there now, body curved around hers, hand on her belly. He sighs and unfurls the blanket that lays folded at the foot of the bed, gently covering his sister with it.

He lays in his bed but does not fall asleep for a long time.

He wakes before Varania and takes the opportunity to wash the dirt of travel off his face in the nearby basin. He fetches some bread and cheese from downstairs as well, eating a bit and setting the rest on the side of the desk that faces her. Retrieving the small book of poems that he keeps in his pocket for such occasions, he leans against the headboard of his bed, propping a pillow under his back, and stretches out his legs in front of him as he revisits his favourite passage of Thibault.

He does not realize that Varania has been watching him until she says, “You learned to read.”

The book snaps shut in his hands, and he sits to face her. “Yes. Did you?”

“A bit,” she replies, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and sitting up. “Enough to keep track of my customers’ accounts. Did _she_ teach you?”

The smell of old books and Hawke’s soap fills his nose as he remembers the curtain of hair that would obscure his view of the pages when she sat next to him. “She did.”

Varania does not comment, instead standing to rifle through her rucksack until she has found a horsehair brush. With it, she tames the hair that has been mussed in the night until it is flat around her ears again.

“We should figure out what you want to do next,” says Fenris as she places the brush back in her sack. “I have brought enough coin to last you a few weeks. Have you friends in the city?”

She looks at him curiously, brows furrowed. “How could I?”

Fenris didn’t have friends in Kirkwall either, until he made some. He throws up his hands impatiently. “Well, what was your plan?”

She frowns, lips pursed. “To find work. I outfitted some of the best, in Ventus. I have good hands. Someone would take me on.”

He sighs exasperatedly. “That’s it? Find honest work? Don’t be naïve, Varania. In a city like this, rife with refugees and escaped slaves alike, there’s only one thing anyone would find your hands useful for. And not one you would like.” He regrets saying it as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but she just laughs coldly.

“Naïve? As if I did not just flee a city on the brink of war. As if I did not live on the streets of Minrathous after _you left us_. No, _brother_ ,” she spits, the word full of contempt, “I am not the naïve one here. And _excuse_ me,” she adds, not omitting the venom from her tone, “for not having the safety of a sword to hide behind. I will find _work_ , pleasant or otherwise, or I will starve.”

Guilt fills him as he meets her steely gaze. He is unkind to judge, unkind to underestimate her, unkind to think her lesser than he. He reminds himself that she has been free, with all the trappings that come with that status, for longer than he has. Free, and responsible for her own safety and well-being, no help from anyone, and _successfully so_.

A thought occurs to him, and he balks at it, thinking of Hawke’s reaction, the baby on the way, the three rooms in their house that are cramped enough as it is.

Still, he cannot stop his mouth as it forms the words, “You should come stay with us.”


	2. Chapter 2

Varania argues at first, of course. She does not wish to impose upon a brother who would have killed her as soon as kept her, ten years past. Fenris reminds her that it has, in fact, _been_ ten years, and that time will not continue to be as kind as it has been to either of them. She accepts this, albeit resentfully. They settle, if not into a comfortable silence, then a tolerant one, as they ride home with her palfrey following his mare.

During the ride, he does not think about how he will explain this to Hawke, only that he will, somehow. He also tries not to think about the fact that the baby, _their_ baby, could meet its aunt. In fact, he blanches when thinking of either of these things, and instead recites his favourite Thibault poem in his head repeatedly. Perhaps he’ll recite it to Hawke, too, while she yells at him.

Hawke’s eyes only widen slightly upon seeing that he has returned from his journey with his sister in tow. Varania, conversely, is unable to hide her surprise at Hawke’s swollen belly, her mouth forming a little ‘o’ as Hawke ushers her indoors. Hawke plays the pleasant host, even making a pot of tea, which she hasn’t done by herself in a month. He asks if he can help her, but she just flashes him a mildly dangerous smile and asks him to set up the living room for his sister. With a sense of dread, he dutifully unrolls the sleeping mat they keep under the sofa and drops Varania’s things next to it while his sister drinks tea at their tiny kitchen table. It annoys him in turn how she has shrunk into her seat, gripping the cup too tightly, eyes carefully absorbing Hawke’s badly-masked irritation. His house is not Minrathous, and Hawke is not a magister; Varania need not manage anyone’s mood here.

It is when he goes to fetch a pillow from their bedroom that Hawke slips in behind him, as gracefully as she can in her state. The smile she plastered on before fades in the second she takes to shut the door.

“So,” begins Hawke, one hand on her hip, the other on her stomach, “when did ‘Hawke, I need to go help my sister because she’s in trouble’ turn to ‘Hawke, my sister’s coming to stay with us?’ It would have been nice to get a heads up, you know. I’d have washed some extra sheets, or something.”

Her tone is light, but she is bristling. All thoughts of the Thibault poem flee Fenris’ head.

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” he says earnestly. “I just thought – you said you’d do anything for Bethany, and I…”

It’s the wrong thing to say, the wrong explanation, and he knows it immediately.

“Bethany?” Hawke exclaims, eyes incredulous. “ _Bethany_? Flames, Fenris, Bethany didn’t try to sell me out to my old master ten years ago. _Bethany_ didn’t betray me, and, and, and—” she stammers here, incensed, “almost get me _killed_! Or worse, back in _chains_ – do you _know_ how scared I was? How scared we all were?” She paces in front of him, arms shaking. “Fenris, I could have _lost_ you that day. Because of _her_. And now you’ve invited someone who’s capable of something like that, who might be around our _baby_ …”

She collapses to sit on their bed once she mentions their child, overcome. Tears well up in her eyes and she wipes them away angrily with the flat of her hand. Then, she looks up at Fenris, whose mixture of alarm and contrition at her outburst must show on his face, and she drops her hand.

“Hawke…”

“Oh, Fenris,” she sighs. “Please, don’t look at me like that. Come sit.” She pats the bed next to her, and he sits down gingerly. She leans her forehead against his shoulder, and he carefully wraps his arm around her, settling at her waist.

“When we talked about it,” he starts, and he is surprised to hear that his voice is trembling a little, “you told me that desperate people do desperate things. You told me yourself that you committed acts you’re not proud of in your first year in Kirkwall. That the true villain is the system in the Imperium that made me a slave, and her, destitute.”

Hawke gives another heavy sigh and looks into his eyes, a deep sadness in her gaze that he hasn’t seen in years. “Fenris, that can be true, and I can still hate her for it. I just… and maybe this wasn’t fair of me, but I just wanted you to be free of it. There are so many things for you to hate about your past, so many wounds to nurse for the rest of your life, and _rightly so_! I… call me selfish, but I didn’t want this to be another one.”

“And you would make this choice for me?” he growls, releasing his hand from the small of her back. “As if I have not had enough of it in the past?”

She crosses her arms again and moves her head jerkily away from his shoulder. “Giving you an alternative _perspective_ ,” she retorts, “does not take away the choice! I did not have a blade at your neck, telling you to forgive and forget what Varania did to you! Maker’s breath, Fenris, fuck me for trying to share your burden!”

“I never asked you to share my burdens!” he snaps, throwing his hands up, and now it is his turn to pace the length of the bed. “They are not yours to bear!”

“I swore a vow,” Hawke pronounces, in a low, furious tone, her eyes ablaze, “in front of our friends and family, that I would protect and comfort you. And if I recall _correctly_ , you agreed to this. And I will be _damned_ if that doesn’t mean protecting you from your own demons.”

He has nothing to say to this, because she is right. This is an old argument, one they have had many times, and since the start, she has been nothing but patient. Firm, too – she has always dragged him out of the darkest of craters when others would have long since given up. He attributes this to her stubbornness, and he is grateful for it. He feels a hot coal of guilt in the pit of his stomach and the anger leaves his throat just as quickly as it appeared.

“Anyway, that’s not what this is about,” she adds, after a few moments of heavy silence.

“No,” he agrees, glad to let the topic go.

Hawke takes a deep, shuddering breath, and continues. “Fenris, I am _very_ pregnant. Our home doesn’t even have a spare bedroom…”

“She’s very small,” he adds with just a hint of a grin. He counts it as a win when Hawke snorts a little.

“Be that as it may… damnit, I wanted it to be just us. This baby, it’s _ours_. I’m not…” Her breath hitches, and the tears gather in her eyes once again. “I’m not ready to share yet another thing in my life with a stranger. I thought I had left that part of my life behind.”

Her expression is a mixture of raw dismay and helplessness – at the sight of it, Fenris returns to her side, sinking to the floor onto his knees, taking her hand in his as he rests his chin on her thigh.

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” he says for the second time that night, looking again with wonder at her swollen belly. “I simply… I don’t know, I thought it could mean something, to me, to have a sister. To know my family.”

He does not know why he is hesitant to admit this. Hawke always loved her family. He saw the easy rapport she had with her mother in the way she sought Leandra’s advice, the love her mother carried for her, the fruits she brought them while Hawke taught Fenris to read, and the way she brought him into the fold as soon as he started sporting the red Amell favour. He has seen, too, the smile that creeps onto Hawke’s face when she receives a letter from Bethany, and the joy that lingers in the air in their house when her sister has cause to visit. Surely, she cannot fault him for thinking he could feel the same.

When she looks down at him fiercely, however, he dreads her answer. “ _We_ ,” she says, eyes flicking to her stomach, “are your family.”

She sits silently for a moment, jaw clenched, but she does not pull away from his hand. He does not want to interrupt her thoughts, so he simply sits, looking up at her, stroking her palm. A hint of pain crosses her face, suddenly, and she softens after it has passed.

“Of course I understand,” Hawke says gently. “I wish I’d just known something like this was on the table before you left.”

“I didn’t know it would be,” Fenris admits, rising from his kneeling position but not letting go of Hawke’s hand.

She sighs. “You’re finally starting to take after me, then.” With no small amount of effort, she gets up from the bed, then groans lightly. “Maker, Bethany’s going to kill me for not being the first aunt to meet baby Hawke.”

Fenris laughs at that, the tension evaporating from his shoulders and his jaw. He often swears that Hawke might yet carry some of her father’s magic, such is the power of her humour on him. Despite this, he turns to her seriously, taking both of her hands in his. Her belly bumps his own stomach; her forehead kisses the tip of his nose.

“Hawke. You must let me choose whether I can forgive her.”

“I know,” she murmurs.

They stand in this position for a few steady breaths until Hawke gives a weak laugh. “Feel,” she says, guiding his hand to her stomach. Fenris waits for it, and when the baby kicks, it’s as if the floor has fallen from underneath him and for a moment, he is soaring.

“So small but so alive,” he marvels quietly.

Hawke presses her lips to his in a tender, chaste kiss, and smiles. “It’s ours, isn’t it? Better be alive as all hell.”

Fenris chuckles at this. Hawke gently slides her hands out of his and turns to open the nearest drawer of their dresser, retrieving a pillow which she then brandishes at him. “I believe you were looking for this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [luzial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luzial/pseuds/luzial/works) for her wonderful beta reading, and to the lovely folks who have liked this thus far! Your comments and kudos truly give me life, thank you <3


	3. Chapter 3

At first, Fenris finds that having a sister is indistinguishable from not having one. As he promised Hawke, Varania is very small indeed, fitting neatly into a corner of their sofa to knit quietly while he scrubs pots or writes letters or reads books. She is silent when she accompanies him to the market, but helpful in noticing what is missing from their larder. He discovers she is a good cook, once Hawke irritably gives Varania permission to use the kitchen as she pleases. The aromas of the dishes she makes fill Fenris with an implacable sadness. He does not know why.

They seldom speak on anything but the most mundane of topics; to make matters worse, the usual ease and humour that he has come to expect between him and Hawke evaporate as soon as either of them emerges from their bedroom in the morning. Breakfast is oppressive: compared to their usually rowdy and affectionate affair, the silence, or worse, consistent small talk has him escaping the table as soon as possible. He is used to waking hours before Hawke to exercise, read, and visit the bank if it is time to collect their monthly stipend from Varric, returning in time to make Hawke coffee, sometimes with a pastry from their local bakery in hand. Varania, however, rises with him, and though she does not exactly disturb him, he can feel her eyes on him as he practices his sword forms in their garden.

She is not averse to hard work, his sister, and her ears are sharp: within a week of her arrival, he is finding tasks that he told Hawke he’d take care of later completed upon his return home. His breath catches every time he tries to thank Varania, but perhaps she sees his smile when he discovers the basket of freshly-darned and folded socks by their bedroom door.

One afternoon, Varania joins Fenris as he is wringing out and hanging sheets to dry in the sunny garden. Wordlessly, she takes the end of the cloth he is wrestling with and together, they twist it until the water drips onto the grass. There is a practiced ease in their movements, though he cannot imagine where it could have come from. Shaking the wrung-out sheet, they toss it over the clothesline Fenris recently nailed back up after it fell. Varania takes some pins from the nearby bucket and stands on the tips of her toes to reach the line and pin them in place.

“You know, we used to do this together. Mother was a washerwoman for House Danarius when we were children. She’d make us help her when she was tired.” Her voice is distorted as she holds the pins in her mouth. “It was always just a game to me. But you were so careful, always listening to make sure no one in the master’s household heard us laughing too loud.”

He has frozen, he realizes, as he watches her retrieve another sheet from the tub. His mother was a washerwoman. He does not know whether he should treasure this knowledge, but a pang runs through his heart all the same. Varania holds out the end of the wet sheet expectantly, and he takes it. They wring it out as before.

“I do not remember,” he says quietly.

“I know,” she replies. For the first time, he sees a flash of sorrow cross her face as she looks at him, before they must once again toss the sheet over the clothing line. When he looks back, it is gone.

Though he does not remember, he can imagine a red-haired elf child laughing gleefully as another, dark-haired (how does he know he had dark hair?) and more serious, hushes her, glancing over his shoulder. He shudders and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment; when he returns, Varania is watching him once again.

“You got Mother’s eyelashes,” she says, her tone wistful, nostalgic. “She said there was some Rivaini ancestry on her _pater_ ’s side.” She even huffs a short laugh. “I was very jealous of them, when we got older. Mother always said they were wasted on you.”

Fenris blinks, suddenly aware of said eyelashes. Varania goes on.

“We have the same nose, I think. I don’t know if it’s from anyone else in the family, though.”

So they do. Looking at Varania, he sees his own nose reflected in her face. He wonders what else of his features, beyond that which was scarred and mutilated by Danarius, comes from a long line of tall, lean elves with strong noses and dusky eyelashes. All of it, he supposes, as that is the way of the world, though he has never thought of it, never considered that perhaps his grandfather was tall, and his aunt, lanky. He wonders whether the child that grows in Hawke’s belly will be tall and lean like him, or shorter, softer like its mother. He has never wondered these things.

“Who was tall?” he finds himself asking.

Varania turns her head quizzically. “What do you mean?”

Fenris gestures downwards, at his body. “I have always been told I am lanky for an elf. Do you know where it came from?”

Varania considers for a moment, then shakes her head. “Our mother never remarked on it. You may have grown taller still…” and here, her tone darkens, “after.”

Silence blankets them again, punctuated only by the whir of wings caused by birds passing overhead. Fenris idly checks the tub, to find there are no more sheets to hang – no more distractions from the tight, unspoken grief that hangs between them. He cannot even explain what he is grieving for.

Thus, he does not speak. And he does not look at his sister, either.

A movement in the corner of his eye startles him, startles Varania, too – it is a hummingbird, come to slip its fine proboscis into the fluted white amaryllis that Hawke has been nursing since early spring. They both watch as the bird flits between the flowers, bobbing up and down, before finally floating away.

“We _begged_ you not to do it,” Varania begins, her voice barely above a whisper, still looking at the flowers. “Not to volunteer. You were _different_ : you could imagine freedom even while still a slave. Different, too, in your stubbornness… you could almost taste freedom, but you wanted it for _us_.”

He can imagine it, too, in his mind’s eye – perhaps it is even a memory, elusive as those are for him. Varania and the blank figure that is his memory of his mother sit at a little table. He is standing but bends over the table, fist on the rough wood. Dark hair falls into his eyes, mouth in a solemn grimace, resolve as strong as when he faced Meredith at Hawke’s side. Fenris, the slave who fought for freedom, but not for himself.

He shudders, thinking of Varania’s last words to him, ten years ago.

“Do you still wish I had not done it?” he asks softly, no anger in his voice. Varania’s shoulders heave in a weighty sigh.

“I was unkind,” she replies. “When we last met. It was,” and it seems to pain her to say this, “not your fault. It may have been the consequence of your choice, but not your fault all the same.”

Fenris doesn’t understand how, after so many years of Hawke saying the same, these words could lift the smog from his heart, the tar that resides deep inside of him. Perhaps it is the fault of the little voice within him that whispers, _she wasn’t there_ , whenever Hawke gives him any assurances about his past. Now, someone stands before him who _was_ there, and perhaps she does not forgive him, but she no longer blames him, either.

He doesn’t know who steps forward first, but in a breath’s time she is pulling him into her arms, and tears are falling freely from his eyes, wetting his mother’s eyelashes. Her embrace is comforting; not like Hawke with her soft cheeks and low laugh and musky hair, but all sharp edges and warm, sun-kissed skin (like _him_ , he realizes). But she is comforting all the same.

“I’m sorry,” he realizes he is crying, “Varania. I’m sorry.”

She hushes him. “Me, too.”

Perhaps it is peace, not forgiveness, that matters. Fenris cries on his little sister’s shoulder, she rubs his back with the hands that held his mothers’, and the amaryllis wave peacefully in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to [luzial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luzial/pseuds/luzial/works) for the wonderful beta-reading!


	4. Chapter 4

After their conversation in the garden, having a sister becomes easier. It begins with more smiles at the breakfast table over dishes that Fenris now knows his mother used to make. Varania shows him the spices in their pantry that combine into flavours distinct to Tevene city elves, and little by little, he experiments with them in his own cooking. Suddenly, his favourite foods start to taste even more like home.

Varania starts accompanying him when he visits the Tantervale alienage to teach the children how to read and transcribe letters to send to family members in Tevinter. One such morning, he sees that she comes with a notebook and quill in hand. As he lectures, he notices her chewing on her lip as she tries to copy the letters he draws for the children on a large piece of slate by their grand _vhenadahl_. When they return home, he peeks at her work – the shapes are rudimentary, but clear. She blushes when he tells her she has done well. It feels good to see her smile.

True to her word, Varania finds a use for her talented hands in the shop of a nearby tailor, who is convinced to pay her a modest fee by Hawke, eager at any opportunity to leave the house at this late stage of her pregnancy. Varania insists on using it to buy unfamiliar fruits from the market for Fenris and Hawke to try. At first, she complains that the work the tailor trusts her to do is too crude. In response, Hawke saunters, as well as she can, over to the shop once more to commission an elaborate baby shawl that is small enough of a job that the tailor is unlikely to work on it himself, in favour of spring dresses for merchants’ daughters and gentlemen’s tabards for the warmer months. She winks at Fenris on their walk home.

“Why would you do this?” Though their strange little household has settled into a sort of acceptance over the past few weeks, Hawke has hardly been grateful for Varania’s presence.

“Because it makes you happy to see her happy,” Hawke replies seriously, giving his arm a squeeze.

He merely presses his lips into her hair at that, and pulls her closer into his side, as best he can.

The carpenter delivers the crib they have ordered on schedule, and it is so lovely that Hawke nearly cries. The oiled rosewood is carved beautifully, and Fenris can see the pride in the eyes of the craftsman as Hawke pays him and thanks him profusely. Later, he catches her rocking the crib, misty-eyed, and she shouts at him not to make fun while wiping the tears from her cheeks. He only smiles and lays a tender hand on Hawke’s shoulder as her tears dry and they watch the little bed sway back and forth.

In the nighttime, he and Hawke read to Varania, who experiences some of their favourite stories for the first time with unmasked delight; otherwise, he plays the lute while Hawke writes in her journal. He is thrilled to discover that Varania sings well, and he struggles to recall some Tevene songs to accompany her light soprano that fills and brightens every corner of their living room.

Sometimes, he and Varania even argue, though with none of the venom he would have expected prior to their reconciliation in the garden. She does not understand that walking the Tantervale streets ready to throw herself to her knees in front of any figure of authority is not a survival mechanism, but a target painted on her back; Fenris does not understand that his references to his time with Danarius, rendered casual through time and familiarity, open up wounds in his sister that are not easily healed. Slowly but surely, however, like steering a burdened ship through rocky waters, they navigate their relationship towards a place of ease and understanding.

One evening, after he and Hawke conclude their meeting with the midwife who is to help Hawke through the birthing process in two weeks’ time, according to the healer, Fenris is struck by a sudden, uncontrollable fear. This fear has been nestled firmly in the darkest corners of his heart since the crib arrived, since the first kick, since Hawke realized she had missed her monthly bleed and told him with gleaming eyes that they might be expecting. It is like a splinter, and while he has done his best to ignore it, it hurts with every movement that he cannot take it out.

That night, as Hawke lays on his chest and he strokes her hair, he cannot help but whisper, “Hawke.”

She is half-asleep, he knows; the leg that is entwined with his own gives a little twitch and she replies sleepily, “Yes, my love?”

He hesitates. He does not want to worry her, not so close to the baby’s coming, but the words spill from his lips anyway.

“Do you think I will be a good father?”

He thinks she may jest or poke at him, but she merely blinks her eyes open and carefully slides to her side, propping up her head with her palm. Gently, her other hand comes to cup his cheek – he turns to face her. Her gaze is serious.

“Fenris. Of course you will. You are the kindest and smartest man I have ever met. Do you trust my judgement?”

He nods. Hawke is always quick to comfort, to reassure, but the icy shard of fear is still there. He thinks about what she has told him of her childhood, the reverence with which she describes her father, the man who was at once grandiose and humble, both an admired mentor and considerate peer, who could joke and give comfort in equal measure.

But he has never met him. And he has no father of his own, the only example of so-called fatherly affection in his recollection the perverted ministrations of a depraved magister. He shudders away the memories that would otherwise take hold at that thought, and instead turns his face to kiss the inside of Hawke’s palm.

She seems to see that her words have not pacified him, and her eyes widen in concern. “What’s wrong, Fenris?”

“I…” He wavers, and his hands shake as he turns to light the lamp that he keeps by his bedside. “I am afraid I do not know how to be a father at all, let alone a good one.”

Now, Hawke does laugh softly, though the mirth does not reach her eyes. “The fact that you are worried is evidence enough that you _do_ , love. Many men become fathers without even desiring fatherhood – though a good father can be made from that bunch, it is a rare thing.” She looks at him intently, considering. “I ask as I did when we first found out. Do you want this child?”

“Yes,” he says firmly. He imagines a dark-haired, green-eyed babe bouncing on Hawke’s knee and rooting their fat little fingers in Fenris’ hair. Something in his chest seems to tremble, and he is certain. “Yes, I do.”

“Then you will love this child, and the rest will come. I promise,” she says confidently, and brushes her lips against his.

They lie in silence for a few moments, and Fenris cannot help but stare at Hawke. She is so beautiful in the cool moonlight, gaze earnest, skin lit as if from within, hair loose and unruly on her pillow.

If he is to be a good father, then, he wonders what it is that he will give. The cold shard already knows the answer.

“I am afraid…” he begins, and his voice starts to shake, but he must say it, he _must_ , “that my past… _fasta vass_ , that somehow the child will _know_ they are sprung from a former slave, even before we tell them. That they will sense in _me_ the scars I bear, the hatred I harboured for years… that they,” and he closes his eyes, tears threatening to spill over, “will be less free for it.”

As he speaks, he imagines the dark-haired babe grown into a dangerous daughter, full to the brim with untempered rage, racing off to war at the first opportunity to draw someone else’s blood. He pictures a trembling, green-eyed son, voice meek and subdued, wordlessly enduring abuse and violence alike from the person he loves, from his friends, from the very world itself.

He sees a child that does not love themselves, as Fenris did not, for a very long time.

He does not have to look at Hawke to know that her expression is pained, hand clenched.

Surprising as always, however, she gives a weak smile. “Oh, just that?” she asks with the tiniest hint of irony, and it is a release for them both, he thinks, to laugh just a little.

“Fenris. The hatred you harboured… any child of ours will see that that is not all that you are. You haven’t been that person in a long time. When I look at you, I see a man who would fight tooth and nail to protect those he has chosen to love. A man who is principled and defends those principles, a man who is willing to teach and learn in turn. A man with the patience,” she pauses to pinch his nose affectionately, “to deal with my ass all these years, and that’s saying something.”

She pauses.

“Your scars have _made_ you who you are as much as any other part of you, but they don’t define you. You are more than the sum of your parts, Fenris. The child will know this, and know your love for them, and trust me, they will be better for it. And if there are hiccups along the way,” she declares, “then that’s what a child’s mother is for, is it not?”

He is struck by the truth of her words. The angry daughter softens in his mind’s eye as Hawke gently takes the longsword from her hand and swiftly pulls her into a tender embrace. A glint of steel grows in his imagined son’s gaze as Hawke grasps his shoulders and compels him to hold his head high.

Hawke has done the same for Fenris, many times.

She is right. He has no doubt that she will be an excellent mother, the best example for the child: fierce protector and unimpeachable teacher. However he may falter, whatever missteps might occur, he knows that she will catch him, and he will strengthen her, and their family will grow sturdy as a grove of trees, together.

Still, somehow, it does not feel like enough. The thrum in his chest gets louder until it is overwhelming, and he must speak again.

“Hawke. What if the child… feels like a shackle?”

He has certainly hurt her now: her heavy blink and flinch confirm as much. The ensuing silence is crushing, anxious. Her touch disappears from his cheek, and she sits up to press her back against the headboard.

But when she speaks again, it is in a low, even voice, with no anger in it.

“I want you to promise me, Fenris,” she utters, every word deliberate, “that if we, your family, ever begin to feel like more of an obligation than a choice, you need to tell me, and we will _figure it out_.”

She is fierce, her stare intense.

“You are a _free man_. That means that you are free from me and from this child – free to decide to walk into the very void if that is what you want, though Maker forbid it.”

Despite the tears on her cheeks, she holds Fenris’ gaze steadily.

“I only ask that you choose wisely.”

Fenris’ heart swells with love for her, for his Hawke, who has been a wellspring of strength and compassion for him for as long as he can remember. He is inordinately blessed, he thinks, to be loved by someone like her, and blessed to have her as an example for their child. He is relieved to remember that she has chosen him, too. He sits up to follow her, and she pulls him into her arms. His hand falls to rest on her belly.

“I will, Hawke. I choose you.”

Under his hand, their baby kicks as if to show its approval.

“Alright,” Hawke sighs into his hair, “alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to [luzial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luzial/pseuds/luzial/works) for beta-reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some details of labour/childbirth, not explicit

Fenris’ mind sets on fire the moment Hawke’s water breaks.

It happens as she is on the sofa, legs outstretched into Fenris’ lap as he gently massages her poor, swollen feet. Varania has not yet returned from the tailor’s shop for the evening, but she is due back soon. Hawke is reading one of Varric’s new novels with an amused look on her face. Balancing the open book on her belly, she reaches to grab her cup of tea off the side table, and as she nestles back into her cozy corner, a look of mild surprise passes over her face.

“Oh,” she says. Then, after a moment, she pales, haphazardly shoves the cup back onto the side table and gets up as quickly as she can in her state. The book falls to the floor. “The sofa!”

Fenris repeatedly assures her that the sofa will be fine as he walks her to the bedroom.

“It’ll never come out,” she says with a sniff.

He tries to chuckle while his thoughts race from one topic to another. The list of items he’s written down under the heading _To do – day of_ flashes before his eyes – beyond needing to send for the midwife, he doesn’t remember anything. The parchment is tucked into the book about childbirth and parenting that he’s been studying frantically at the desk in their room for the past week. He snatches the paper up as he anxiously watches Hawke climb into bed. Then, she huffs as he glances over the list, which quickly rushes him to her bedside again.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

She only rolls her eyes. “ _No_ , and this,” she gestures around the room, “is hardly necessary. My mother, with the twins, was on her feet up until you could practically see Carver’s head starting to poke through.”

Fenris blanches. “The book said—”

Hawke scowls in return. “The book’s full of shit.”

He relaxes for a moment to give her a wry smile. “Between the healer and the book, now, it appears we’ve got ourselves a whole privy’s worth.”

This earns him a glare, and he laughs and returns to his list. After sending for the midwife, he ought to time the contractions, make some royal elfroot tea for the pain, and—

“At least fetch me my novel, would you?”

Fenris obliges immediately and runs to and from the living room at a breakneck speed, though as he hands it to her, he asks, “Have you had any contractions yet?”

She merely sighs and says, “Go talk to the midwife.”

On some level, he understands that he is behaving irrationally, but the strange heat of panic and excitement in the air has him ready to explode. The cool spring breeze is a blessing as it hits him on the walk to the midwife’s home, a few blocks from theirs. Her name is Mara and she is a kind woman, having eased along the births of many children, human and elven alike, but he has a feeling that she will not tolerate his hovering.

Accordingly, when Fenris tells the midwife that Hawke’s water has broken, she simply arches her brow and asks about the frequency of contractions. He lamely doesn’t know, and Mara seems unimpressed but tells him to wait for her to finish her dinner. He can barely keep himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet.

To his abject horror, Mara, a basket of supplies in hand, shoos him from the bedroom when they arrive. Worse yet, Hawke agrees, and he is forced to pace wildly in the living room, running his hands through his hair, while they do… whatever it is a midwife and a woman in labour do, under the circumstances.

He is very close to starting to bang his head on the wall when he is interrupted by the opening of the front door. Varania steps through and, after hanging her cloak on a hook by the doorway, takes a long look at him. He stares back, realizing that he must look unhinged.

“I see it has begun,” she says with mild amusement, taking off her boots. “The midwife removed you?”

“Yes,” he growls, and resumes his pacing.

His sister watches him for awhile, then sighs lightly. “I’ll ask if they want some tea.”

At this declaration, Fenris freezes, to glare at her, protectiveness over Hawke rising to his throat. Varania simply stares coolly back.

“I’m sure if you ask nicely, she might let you back in. Perhaps only if you stop your pacing, though.” Her tone is much too knowing for his liking.

She saunters off to knock at the bedroom door, exchanging some quiet words with Mara and nodding sharply. She returns a few moments later and lights the stove to set the kettle to boil.

“She said,” she calls from the kitchen, “if you behave, you can go in.”

The words have barely left her lips before Fenris throws the door to the bedroom open. The midwife does not look surprised at his vigour as she looks up from rifling through the basket she brought. The room smells strongly of rose oil and bergamot. He hastens to Hawke’s side and gently takes her hand. There is a light sheen of sweat on her forehead; already her hair has begun to stick.

“Hey,” she whispers, “fancy meeting you here.”

Hawke is smiling as if it is the most natural thing in the world. She is right to, he supposes – she comes from a long line of strong women who have survived this, just as he now _knows_ she will, too. Just like that, his earlier panic escapes him, and a pervasive sense of calm pools in his stomach as he chuckles quietly.

“I am here.”

She winces and squeezes his hand as pain crosses her face – when her grip loosens, he asks her, “How much time since the last one?”

Mara interrupts before Hawke can answer, flipping a small hourglass she has placed on their desk. “Around ten minutes.”

He looks back at her to notice that beside the hourglass burns a stick of incense, likely the source of the smells. It is noticeably warmer than before, too – Mara has stoked the fire in the bedroom hearth and the linen of his shirt sticks slightly to his back. He presses a cool kiss to Hawke’s sweaty forehead and stands to face the midwife, who is now sitting primly in the armchair next to the fireplace.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks.

“Other than not fretting excessively, I daresay not much. You mustn’t stress your wife, serah. It is your charge, as her husband, to be the ground under her feet as she walks this well-trodden but treacherous path. _You_ ,” she adds, with all the enthusiasm of someone who has given this speech many times, “must not falter.”

Fenris meets Hawke’s sidelong glance and they smirk at each other. Her tone, and the contents of her sermon, are not unlike Aveline’s, marshalling her guards before yet another night patrol in Darktown. Mara even looks a little bit like her, with her stern brow and set chin, though her hair is sandy blonde instead of auburn. He imagines Aveline in the midwife’s ascetic robe, waving around sticks of incense, and only narrowly suppresses his laughter. “I’ll… keep that in mind, Mara. Thank you.”

The midwife nods, seemingly satisfied, and smooths the front of her frock over her knees. “Ah, and we’ll need some clean cloths, as discussed previously, and a basin of water.”

He slips out to retrieve the cloths he’s prepared from their linen chest, as instructed, and narrowly misses bumping into Varania bearing a tray with a steaming teapot and four cups. She does, however, bump her elbow quite hard into a corner, and is forced to put the tray back down as she rubs the offending appendage.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, and goes to check the chest.

“I see they’ve calmed you down,” she remarks, a bit of good-natured irony in her voice, sitting down at the kitchen table, as he stacks the cloths under his arm.

He only smiles and hums. “All will be well,” he says. He knows this: Hawke is the strongest person he has ever met.

Varania is pensive for a moment. “Mother always said your birth was difficult.”

Fenris looks up at her words. He has never actively imagined himself as a baby, having no memory of himself until adulthood. In some ways, he finds it hard to believe that he was ever as small as a child.

His sister continues. “She said she was in labour for twenty-five hours. No such treatment,” she gestures vaguely towards the bedroom door, where Hawke lies, “for a slave, of course. Apparently, you came out all blue, cord twisted around your neck. The older woman who was helping her was ready to give up. But then, she said you gave off such a cry and took in such a gasp of air. You were strong.”

For a moment, he seems to remember a blush in his cheeks, strong hands, _mother’s_ hands on his shoulders. A voice – soft, confident – floats somewhere above his head and says, _You are strong, Leto_. He shudders, and the memory passes.

“You were born in the summer, so she named you Leto.”

He raises a brow. “‘Summer’ in Tevene is _aestas_.”

At that, his sister smiles, and her eyes are nostalgic and faraway for a moment. “I forgot that you wouldn’t remember. It is from the slave dialect, borne of many tongues. The word could be Qunari, or Elvhen, even.”

He stares at her for a few moments, then looks down, mouthing the word silently. He quickly gets up and places the stack of cloths next to Varania at the table. She catches his arm.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely, her green eyes meeting his own. “For choosing to share this moment with me. I… do not take it lightly.”

He nods with a smile. “I do not, either.”

A loud groan of pain suddenly comes from the bedroom, and Fenris’ heart stops. He clutches the cloths, staring wildly at Varania.

“ _Go_ ,” she urges. “I will bring the rest. A basin of water?”

“Yes,” he breathes, and he is back in the warm, bergamot-scented room, holding Hawke’s hand.

“My love,” he whispers, “it’s going to be alright.”

“I know,” she pants, followed by a sharp, “ _Fuck_!” as another contraction takes her.

They increase in frequency, punctuated by Hawke’s screams and extensive profanity. Her cries tear at Fenris’ heart, but he does not show it, only steadfastly holding Hawke’s hand. He will guide her up this mountain, she, pushing the weight of a whole world – all he can do is tell her to hold on.

When the midwife tells her to push, Hawke looks at him, bleary-eyed. “I can’t,” she says desperately.

“Yes, you can.”

“I’m so tired, Fenris.”

“You can and you _will_ , Hawke. Remember the Arishok? You ran circles around him for _hours_. You were tired then, but you did not fail.” He adds, “On a scale of one to getting skewered with a longsword and a greataxe, what does this feel like?”

As he expected, Hawke’s gaze turns from exhausted to enraged at his joke, and she lets out a feral scream. It works, though. She pushes. Once, twice, a third time. Again, and again.

Then, all at once, it is over, and the midwife pulls an impossibly tiny, wrinkled babe onto a blanket, rubs it gently with a fresh towel, and puts the squealing little thing into Fenris’ arms.

“A girl,” she says simply, and goes to Hawke’s side.

_A girl_. Fenris knows he should go to her as well, but he cannot peel his eyes away from the child in his arm, _their_ child, their _daughter_. She is red-faced and sports a surprisingly large shock of Hawke’s (or is it his?) dark brown hair. He delightedly spies a hint of his proud nose, though hers is scrunched up, and when she opens her eyes in between wails, he notices something between blue and green in her irises. He chuckles as he sees she has inherited not his, but her mother’s eyelashes. He wonders if she will jealously complain about not inheriting his own, like Varania, one day. Her chin, it seems, is some distant relative’s that he does not know, or perhaps even no one’s but her own, and this fills Fenris with an irrepressible sense of wonder. She is scrabbling, little limbs wriggling about; he instinctively brings his hand to her tiny one and as she grasps his finger firmly, he is not ashamed to feel his eyes fill with tears. Put simply, she is the most perfect being that he has ever laid his eyes upon, and he knows instantly that he would fight a thousand Tevinter magisters in single combat if it would keep her safe.

He struggles to break his enraptured gaze to glance up at Hawke, who has regained the strength to scowl at him once the midwife has slipped out of the room.

“Fenris,” she rasps threateningly in between sips of water from the cup at her bedside, “if you do not bring her over here _right now_ , I swear to the Maker I will strangle you.”

“Hardly possible in your state,” he replies, but within a moment their daughter is in her mother’s arms all the same.

He is blessed to witness his second miracle of the day: the sun is setting and the orange glow from their western-facing windows is hitting Hawke’s face just right – she is encircled in a halo of warm, beautiful light as she cradles the child suckling at her pale breast. She may be exhausted, but all Fenris sees on her face is an expression of absolute adoration, purest love as she looks down at the baby. Their daughter.

He cannot help it: a delighted laugh bubbles up and escapes his lips.

Hawke looks up, and he feels as if the beacon of love and light that he saw stream from her face onto their baby has illuminated him, in turn.

“She’s really something, isn’t she?” Hawke says, awestruck, any irritation long gone from her voice.

He slides to sit on their bed next to her and gazes down at the nursing babe. His voice is rough as he answers.

“I truly never thought I could feel like this. She is… perfect.”

Hawke gives a weary but content sigh and leans her forehead against the side of his own. He listens to the sound of her breathing and the child fussing at her breast. As their daughter clutches at Hawke’s skin with her tiny hands, he gently gives her his finger to hold onto again, and she seems to settle. He means what he said. He has felt no better feeling, not even at the sight of Hawke resplendent by a Chantry altar. Looking upon his daughter in his wife’s arms is as close to divinity as he has tasted it.

“I think I want to call her Leandra.”

He hums in agreement. Though Hawke has not mentioned it of late, he knows how desperately she wishes her mother had been here with her today, yesterday, for the past ten years. “Of course,” he murmurs, and presses a soft kiss to her temple.

There is a soft knock at the door. Fenris rises to open it – Varania’s wide eyes greet him on the other side.

“Is it over? Is she alright?” There is now more than a hint of fear in her voice, compared to her earlier cool demeanour, and he is touched when he realizes she must have hidden her anxiety for his sake.

“Come in, Varania,” calls Hawke from behind Fenris’ shoulder before he gets the chance to answer.

His sister gingerly walks through the door and pulls out something from behind her back. It is the shawl that Hawke ordered, and it is gorgeous, decorated with a soft, delicate floral pattern.

“Thank you for commissioning this,” she murmurs. “I am grateful.”

“Oh, Varania,” Hawke says, and Fenris thinks that perhaps she is drunk off the abundance of love that fills the room when she uses her free arm to pull his sister’s shoulders towards her. “It’s beautiful. And I hope it helped.”

Varania’s cheeks colour in response. “Yes. The tailor was pleased. I am due to stitch some spring cloaks, for now, but he has promised I can work on the summer dresses.”

She moves the shawl from the top of what Fenris now realizes is a little bundle.

“These are from me,” she says, unfolding the top garment.

It is a little linen shirt, the perfect size for a newborn. A small hawk is embroidered on the front, and Varania gestures to it. “Fenris told me it is your surname.”

Hawke laughs delightedly. “So it is! This is perfect, Varania. I’m touched.”

So is Fenris. It is a most thoughtful gift. He swells with pride at her skill, too. It is a new feeling.

There are a pair of tiny stockings, too, in Hawke’s favourite red, and a cotte in rich blue. “It’s for when she’s older. Maybe for the fall,” Varania muses. She looks at his daughter, and something akin to adoration enters her gaze. “She is beautiful. Have you chosen a name?”

“Leandra,” Fenris and Hawke say at the same time, and grin at each other.

Varania smiles. “Little Leandra Hawke. It’s a beautiful name.”

A shadow passes over Hawke’s face at the mention of her mother’s full name, but she brightens almost immediately. It occurs to Fenris that despite having Varania here in their home for the past several weeks, he has never thought to ask her their mother’s name. Perhaps knowing it would have made her too real, made him smart too intensely from the sting of the reopened wound of knowing what Danarius had taken away. But now, he has a daughter. A daughter, who ought to know both her grandmothers’ names.

“Varania…” he starts, and she looks up at him. “What was our mother’s name?”

Her face takes on an expression that Fenris cannot name. “As a slave, House Danarius renamed her – she was known as Camilla.” Now, Varania’s gaze softens, and she even smiles. “But she was born Amaryllis. The flower of determination, beauty, and love.”

All of a sudden, Fenris is overcome. He imagines the woman of his vague memories ( _Amaryllis_ echoes in his ears), and imagines Varania, born with a shock of red hair. He sees Amaryllis, in his mind’s eye, passing his crying sister for him to hold. He wonders if he felt the same love for her then as he feels now, holding his daughter. He thinks of the boy that he was, his bravery, his stubbornness, his inexorable need to grant freedom to his family. There is pain, too as he remembers the man he was, birthed anew after Danarius’ ritual, pink and raw as much as his little Leandra, and he thinks of the steel that he was forged into by the cruel events of his life.

The steel that became the warrior who could rip out a hundred hearts at a mere look from his master. The killer who had rent open the people who had trusted him at Danarius’ command.

The man who had, against all odds, somehow returned from the sunken place his actions had brought him to.

Oddly, he smiles at this thought. Not somehow. Not mysteriously. The boy who had fought for the freedom of his family had risen from inside of him and made a choice.

And this choice had led him here, first to Kirkwall then to Felissa Hawke, Hawke with her strong arms and patient heart, who showed him that he can choose to love. And who had made a husband of him, a husband who can hold her heart in his palm and not crush it, who can sew back together tears made by time and wear, both in old socks and the fragile threads that tie him to his sister.

To think that from Amaryllis would spring forth such a man as he, and that by fate and by choice, she, and Hawke’s mother, would live on through this tiny spark of hope, against all odds.

He turns, suddenly desperate, to Felissa.

“Could we—”

“Yes,” said Hawke firmly. “Absolutely, Fenris.”

He smiles broadly at her, and when the words come, they feel as if they were always meant to leave his lips.

“Welcome to the world,” he says, and something in his heart somehow simultaneous breaks and is made anew, “Leandra Amaryllis Hawke.”

Hawke gives a contented sigh. Fenris presses his lips to her hair and gives his finger to little Leandra to play with, who lets out a squeal. Varania looks at the both of them and places a tender shoulder against his, with the biggest smile he’s ever seen on her.

“Congratulations, brother.”

\--

end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! Thanks to everyone who has followed this story and for your kind comments. Especially big thanks to [luzial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luzial/pseuds/luzial), who has been the most wonderful beta-reader and whose edits and suggestions have made this story a whole lot better.


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